My Generation
by Toff
Summary: A parody that is not a parody about those 'second generation' stories. Please review. reading optional but recommended.


My Generation

A/N: This is supposed to be a parody of those second generation things. I wrote it in like a half hour, so leave me alone. Extra special thanks to the L.M.F.F.I., that random name generator really helped! Oh, and sorry if the formatting makes the story hard to read, my computer isn't very bright.

Young Emile Enjolras stared out the window counting the raindrops. It had been raining, for, well, a very long time. 

"Funny" he mused. "It's never stopped raining. It hasn't been sunny, since, well I don't know when."

"Since the invention of fanfiction." Said one of his adversaries, Patrice Grantaire.

"It seems to be common belief that emotions only come about when it rains." He then took a drink of water. Patrice despised liquor.

Meanwhile, Aveline Joly was eating some bread she dropped on the floor. She figured it was still good, even if there was a bit of dirt on it.

Just then, a woman sauntered in. She wore strange clothing (even, gasp, _pants_) and clutched a pen and a notebook.

"Is this the Café Musain?" She asked in English.

"Speak in French," yelled Gerard Feuilly. "I despise anything foreign."

She asked again, and her question was answered in the affirmative. Meanwhile Emile was kissing her feet and repeating "Je t'aime" over and over.

"Hmm…" she muttered, checking her notebook. "Respect for women…you must be Jean Prouvaire!"

A man lifting weights in the corner said "No, that was my father. I'm Alexandre Prouvaire."

Emile stood up. "And I am Emile Enjolras, my sweet." He whispered, kissing her hand. "Who are you?"

"I'm an authoress, and I'm going to write a fanfiction." The woman sat down. "Just do what you usually do."

The group paused for a moment, looks of confusion shadowing their faces, and returned to what they were doing.

"Did you see Marius this morning?" said Emmanuel Bahorel. "That waistcoat didn't match his trousers."

"A faux pas!" cried Lucien L'Aigle, who was usually referred to as 'Button'. He then stood up, ran his fingers through his thick hair, and succeeding in knocking nothing over.

"Don't you want to build a barricade to avenge the death of your fathers?" questioned the author, rather wearily.

"A barricade?!" gasped Button. "But my hair is not going to take to that kind of exposure!"

"I could break a nail!" wailed Emmanuel. 

"I heard they did it in Poland," growled Gerard. "If the Polish did it, it can't be a good idea."

"I couldn't stand to spend that much time with Emile!" shouted Patrice.

"All right, all right!" sighed the author. "It was just a suggestion."

"Besides," replied Emile. "Our fathers are unfortunately very much alive."

Just then, an old man was wheeled into the back room by one of the servers. There was a red flag attached to his wheelchair, and through the spokes of the wheels was woven three sashes, making a tricolor.

"Meet my father." Sighed Emile. "Enjolras, Sr."

"Vive la Republique!" spat the old man. 'Why aren't you building a barricade?"

"I've told you a thousand times, father." Emile explained as though is father was a child who had asked too many questions.. "France is a republic. It's 1871. The Third Republic was established last year."

"Just another bourgeoisie trick!" cried Enjolras Sr., and wheeled out the room. A minute or two later, he went past the window as fast as possible, accompanied by a parade of elderly men hobbling a pace behind him, waving canes 

"They don't learn, do they?" moaned Patrice, taking another gulp of water.

The authoress glanced around for a moment, seeming to expect something. Seeing the students were not going to do anything of interest to her, she sped out, muttering something about catching up with the old men. 

"Our dads are pretty good actors." Said "Button".

"Is she gone?" asked "Emile".

"Patrice" fished a bottle of liquor from somewhere under the table. "She won't be back." He laughed.

"My poor Poland!" cried "Gerard".

"Oh, that bread! I'm going to die! I've got plauge! I've got food poisoning!" lamented "Aveline", peeling off "her" wig.

"How long until she finds out it's 1832?" said "Alexandre".

"Never." Promised "Emmanuel."

"Good, then." Said Enjolras. "Now, let us get back to work." He pulled out a map. "Okay, in the Rue de Saint Michel…"

END


End file.
